Black Buck(33)

But I stayed silent.

He turned around, amused. “I want to hear that you got that, Buck. No, I need to hear it in order to feel safe, to know you’re not dangerous.”

I closed my eyes, imagined getting up and slamming my fist through his face, his nose cracking like ice in a plastic tray. But then I pictured Rhett staring at me with the same look of pride that he’d given Clyde that morning, the same look he’d given me after I rapped in Monday’s meeting. I don’t know why that vision held so much weight for me, but it did. And it was enough to make me swallow any trace of pride I had.

“Got it,” I said, hating myself.



* * *





“Welcome to Torah,” Eddie said with outstretched arms. Torah, like every other room in the office, bore no cultural resemblance to its namesake.

“Another religious text, cool,” I said.

Even though I’d had only a few interactions with Eddie, I liked him. The whole hipster-punk-rock look—black ear gauges, goatee, wire-frame glasses, holey Metallica T-shirt to go with his black skinny jeans and leather combat boots—didn’t match his glittering personality, but I appreciated that I couldn’t really place him in a box.

“Mm-hmm. When we moved offices, the almighty Rhett decreed that each room be named for one of the sacred books of our assistants’ various religious beliefs.”

“So how does that work? The assistants, I mean. Do they find us or do we find them?”

“A little bit of both, but we have what we call community managers who sign them up. They’re not like licensed therapists, but are totes certified in their various belief systems and can speak credibly about them. For example, our community managers may find a prominent Hindu practitioner in India via a blog post or video, then reach out to see if she’d like to become an assistant. After she accepts, her time becomes available to book for employees of the organizations who use us. And while the woman may not be certified by our American standards, her different outlook on life could still be useful to people going through hard times here or in other places around the world.”

“I see. But are there ever any issues? You’re finding strangers online and people are paying to speak with them. They can’t always be good, right?”

He stroked his goatee. “Yeah, of course. There’re always a few bad eggs who get into trouble, but users can review, report, or leave comments so we can kick them off the platform ASAP. But it’s obviously not in the assistants’ best interest to be assholes. They want to make money and help people.”

“Got it.”

That session with Eddie was the day’s silver lining. I learned that “no one’s going to stay on the line with someone as interesting as C-SPAN,” that “what and how you pitch depends on who you’re pitching to,” and that the point of speaking with someone is to have a conversation, not to conduct an interrogation. But best of all, I learned how to have fun on the phone.

Reader: All of that is critical advice. No one is going to listen to someone who sounds like they’d rather be doing something else. And when you’re trying to convince someone of anything, you need to tailor your message to the person you’re speaking with so it resonates as powerfully as possible.



At the end, Eddie smiled, and said, “You might just get this.” And no matter how corny this sounds, it felt like one of those movie scenes where the skinny white nerd begins to grow muscles, run faster, and lift more weights right before he knocks the shit out of his bully. Or shoots up the whole school. But you get the point.

For the first time in my life, I was the skinny white nerd.



* * *





When I swung by Rhett’s office, he was in the same spot as the night before, alone with the lights low, nursing a glass of gin. His eyes were closed when I entered, as if he were praying.

“Anything good?” I dropped my bag.

“The usual.” He opened his eyes and patted the couch. “How was your day? Any better?”

“Uh, sort of. At least role-plays were. Eddie set me straight.”

“Good one. Drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Then pool. Get up.”

He chucked a stick at me and racked the balls.

“Break,” he said, bloodshot eyes glaring at the illuminated triangle.

I’d always thought pool was reserved for white guys with tattoos, leather jackets, and asthmatic Harley-Davidsons, which led to one unfortunate outcome: I couldn’t hit a ball to save my life.

“The aim is to hit those balls in the center of the table, Buck. Not do all you can to miss them,” he said, shaking with laughter. “Again.”

I took aim and caught the bottom corner of the triangle. Fifteen balls inched away.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Rhett said. “I sure hope you sell better than you play pool.”

“This game’s fixed,” I said, after he whooped my ass. Any game where one white ball can beat the living crap out of every other nonwhite ball on the table has to be rigged.

“It’s not fixed, Buck. You just need to change your approach. All you need is a coach.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, plopping down on the leather couch. “Like God, right? The ultimate coach? Is that who you were chatting with before?”